


A Light on the Prow

by bbvhrla



Series: Light on the Prow [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:43:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbvhrla/pseuds/bbvhrla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Hannibal and Will first meet when Will is still a detective in New Orleans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Light on the Prow

The house is early 19th century, bad insulation and oak floorboards likely cut from the ancestors of the trees lining the street outside. It's a pity, but with the puddle of salty blood already sunk in-between the cracks, the floorboards will likely be warped indefinitely.

Aleshia’s dead, he knows that, though the paramedics clearly don't. _Leave her_ he wants to tell them, _its no use_ , but the words can’t seem to worm past the knot in his throat. He follows the stretcher instead, ignores everything but her limp hands hanging over it’s side, and someone is calling his name but he’s already in the ambulance, barely a second of stillness before they’re whisked away.

 

Will doesn’t know much about hospitals, about the politics involved in scheduling employees, but he’s fairly certain on-call doctors aren’t supposed to be halfway across the city, no matter the importance of the ‘dinner’ they’re attending. They’d been keeping Aleshia stable for twenty minutes before the man - a neurosurgeon, the best, the nurses assured him - arrives. Will had spent the whole time with his hands squeezed white against his thighs, and when he sees the doctor approach, tailed by another Will can only assume is a friend, both in similarly expensive dinner jackets, Will can’t help it. The doctor is already shouting to the nurses to prep this, prep that, he’s almost through the door to the surgery wing, but Will's legs are long, he steps in front and stops him.

“What th - “

“Don’t operate on that girl.”

The surgeon had already recoiled at Will's appearance, and he exaggerates into the move as he comprehends Will’s words. His friend, also eyeing Will, grabs the man’s arm to steady him.

“What did you say?” the doctor manages.

“That girl - bullet to the head? Don’t operate on her.”

“Who are you?”

“Detective Graham.”

The nurse, who had approached tentatively, murmurs in the doctor’s ear. “He’s the one who brought her in.”

“Oh." His face falls into a patronizing grimace. “He’s the one who shot her.”

This time it’s Will’s turn to recoil.

“No.”

“I don’t have time for this.” The doctor pushes past, pushes Will back into the door frame, and he’s surprised, briefly, when the man’s companion reaches out to steady him, the same as he did for his friend before.

“Are you all right?” His accent is odd, Lithuanian perhaps, but Will can’t be sure, and in any case isn't really paying attention.

“It’s a waste,” he shouts to the swinging doors, knowing already it’s too late. He breathes deep into the silence that falls over the hall, breathes through the panic rising in his chest, and for whatever reason the doctor’s friend still hasn’t left, hasn’t even let go of his arm. “Sit down,” he’s saying, leading Will back to one of the cheap plastic chairs that line the wall, and Will wants to sink into that familiar position with his head in his hands, but he can’t even touch his own skin without feeling her wound, jagged edges of bone and mush, bare flesh.

“Are you all right?” the man asks again, and Will looks up.

“I didn’t shoot her,” he says, looking the man straight in the eye.

“All right.”

Will looks down again. He never can fix on a new face for long.

“I’m sorry for my friend.”

“That asshole was your friend?” Frustration, that was all, and a thin hope that the ferocity with which he spoke would shoo the man away. A chuckle greets his ears instead.

“I suppose. We were in university together. Perhaps competitor is a more appropriate word.”

Will stares at the tiled floor, jaw set, but his lack of response doesn’t seem to phase the man.

“He did recommend I try the Cajun place across the street. Seemed to be under the impression that our dinner would not continue tonight.”

Will snorts.

“He must be an asshole then, the food at that place is chum. If you want Cajun, go to Lantern Louie’s. It’s a few blocks down. Worth the walk.”

He stands as he says it with a dismissive turn, but the man steps up next to him.

“I'm sorry - I’m in no way familiar with this city. Perhaps you could join me for a drink? Call it an apology, if you like.”

Will stops. Really, he's not considering the bar or the small talk with this stranger so much as he is the alternative: going home, with the insomnia of the night ahead spread out before him like an endless sea.

“Maybe. I’ll walk you over.” _One drink_ , he tells himself fiercely. “The bus stop is that way anyway.”

 

 _He’s old._ The thought strikes and immediately afterwards dissolves, because he’s not. Well-off, obviously, from the way he’s dressed, polite, yes, and what else? _Well-rehearsed_ , Will realizes, that’s what makes him seem older than his angled cheekbones would suggest. His emotions, whatever they are, are hidden, and with no small amount of skill. Will bites his tongue before he can ask the man’s age, _you’re here for conversation, not to draw up a profile_ , and shakes his head when he realizes he’s been asked a question.

“Sorry?”

“A wine you’d suggest? Perhaps something local?”

“Local?”

He looks around, and yes, they are in Lantern Louie’s, the TV above the bar tuned to the WWE match, a neon sign pointing out the way to the bathroom. _A local wine?_ This wasn’t this guy’s kind of haunt in the slightest.

“I’m not sure they have anything local.” _I’m not sure if there is anything local._ “Maybe try the Pinot Noir? I think it was a good year for it on the coast.”

He looks up just in time to catch the man’s smirk. Or was it a smirk? It was there for just a second, and god he feels sloppy, he's never met someone so hard to read.

“I think a glass of the Pinot Noir for me." The man gives the waitress a smile with his order, and turns to Will. "Graham?”

“Makers double, neat.”

“Out in jiffy boys,” and Will’s face burns. _Why the hell did I tell him to come here?_ He barely even notices that the man had leaned in.

“It is Graham, is it not? Or would you prefer Detective?”

“It’s Will, actually. I didn’t - sorry, I never got your name.”

“Please, the fault is mine. My name is Hannibal.”

 

Their conversation is light, not unpleasant, although at times Will’s mind wanders. He can’t help the things that remind him of Aleshia, how viciously close she is in his mind tonight. The cigarette stains on the waitress’ short cut nails, that same dead tired look in the eyes of everyone passing by. He ignores them, focusing on his companion instead, trying every trick in the book to read this guy, who he is, where he's from, and maybe if he wasn’t already three drinks in, it’d be easier. He must’ve said something particularly witty, because Hannibal smiles and, after a moment, leans in as he had at the beginning of their meal, speaking low, and private.

“I fear I must make a confession.”

“Oh?”

“I find myself less disappointed than before, that my friend took up that surgery’s call.”

Will frowns at this, a finger catching friction on the edge of his glass.

“He can’t save that girl.”

“No,” Hannibal leans back. “Her body, perhaps, but her mind, no. Yet if he had turned it down, I’m not sure we would ever have had the chance to talk.”

Before he can stop himself Will meets the man’s eyes. Its an intimate gesture, one he almost always avoids, but it’s also an incredibly easy reaction, to meet the eyes of one who seems interested, who seems to find you important.

“You’ve missed catching up with your friend.” He holds his gaze, drawing on every bit of empathy he can muster through the whiskey haze to try and find some tangible reaction. “You prefer my company to his?”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, looks away with a slight shrug of the shoulders, all his movements practically imperceptible, perfectly in control of everything he reveals. _How does he do that?_ He catches Will’s eyes again, Will, who has not yet looked away.

“I find a bit more promise here, yes." There's a pause long enough to give Will time to look away before Hannibal fills the conversational gap. “Do you enjoy your work as a detective, Will?”

“I’m good at it.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“There aren’t really that many professions where the ability to read people, to read into peoples actions is a major qualification.”

“No? You could have been a businessman - a salesman.”

Will’s laugh is deep as the well of whiskey in his stomach.

“I - uh, I don’t really think I have the..social..ability for that.”

“Hm. Neither, as we’ve confirmed, does that abominable companion of mine, fixated as he is on the physicality of the brain.”

There’s something like fondness in his voice, and it strikes Will suddenly how familiar Hannibal’s hand had been on the man’s arm.

“Are you his lover?” The whiskey’s drained the filter from his brain, but he tries to save face a little, as an after-thought. “Or, at school, were you?”

Hannibal’s grin is tight-lipped, wide.

“Competitors, as I said.”

It sinks in slow, and then, for the third time that night, Will meets his eyes.

“That’s not a no.”

“No. No, it’s not.”

 

They take a cab from the restaurant, Hannibal's arm spread long on the back, jolting into Will’s shoulders every so often when they hit a bump, fingers tapping light to the beat of the radio song.  Though he's too polite, it seems, to make a move in the car, once they're out on the street again Hannibal pulls him close, a hand tight on Will’s wrist with the other pressed on the back of his neck as he leans in for a kiss. Will’s mouth is already burnt numb from the whiskey; the kiss, somehow, seems to set it on fire all over again.

The apartment in front of which they’re standing is old, a large balcony with an iron rail built practically for the purpose of watching the Mardi Gras parades.

“You live here?” Will's voice is a whisper, crowded as they are in the entryway while Hannibal fumbles with the lock.

“I stay here,” Hannibal murmurs.

“What, like a vacation home?”

“It’s a friend’s.” He’s kissing Will inside, Will’s “That asshole?” drowned in a sharp laugh and a deeper kiss, “ _No_ , Will,” and Hannibal grips his hips, both pulling him close and pressing him back against the inside wall. “We are alone here tonight.”

Good, he wants to say, but the response is swallowed in a gasp as Hannibal’s kisses move down along his jawline, open-mouthed against Will’s neck, strong like he's trying to crush it underneath his lips. _Just let go_ , Will tells himself, _let it be automatic_ , but he’s painfully aware of his hands, gripping mechanically at Hannibal’s side. He lets them sink, opening his legs at the hip and pulling closer. Hannibal’s hand moves from the wall to Will’s chest, the side of his thumb tracing the outline of muscle on top of the shirt. His other hand drops from Will’s neck, and both are tight on his legs for a second before Hannibal hikes him up with a surprising strength, slamming him back against the wall, and Will’s chest goes tight with a lack of air. His legs are straddling Hannibal’s hips and Hannibal grinds into him, pushing his arms up until he’s got Will’s shirt off over his head. The air is cold on his naked skin. With the heel of one hand pressed against the wall in an attempt to keep himself upright, he curls the other into the fringe of hair at the back of Hannibal’s neck, and arches back when Hannibal bends in, the same open-mouthed kisses on the flushed skin of his neck, down his chest, pinching wet his nipples. He wants to do something - unbutton his jeans maybe, unbutton both their pants - this dry humping can’t be uncomfortable for him alone, but the thought strikes him: _he will when he wants to_ , and for the moment he’s grateful it's not up to him.

The moment ends rather abruptly when Hannibal pulls back, not just his mouth but his whole body, and Will lands on his feet not the least bit gracefully, the skin on his back raw from the slide down the wall.

“Sorry.” Hannibal’s looking him over like he’s surveying for damage.

“I - it’s all right. What - “

“My friend is unfortunately not in the habit of keeping condoms or lube in the coat closet.”

He leans in, a hand stretching out on the small of Will’s back and pressing him up straight, _fuck_ he’s strong, calling him up into a deep kiss.

“I’ll be right back,” and he disappears down the hall. Will’s almost glad he’s not meant to follow, he’d be stumbling in a clown-like mimic of the man’s grace.

It’s dark in the apartment, Hannibal apparently not one of those to leave lights on to come home to, and Will curls his hands into fists to keep from opening doors, going through drawers. _It’s not a crime scene_ , but crime scenes are the only new places he sees these days, it's practically become an instinct. That, and the insatiable need to be doing something, something besides just standing there like a deer in headlights when the 6’ Slavic man he’s going to fuck tonight walks back into the room.

He swings his foot up to rest sideways on his thigh, picking at the boot laces and kicking it off, and he’s still working on the other one when Hannibal returns, humming low in what Will can only hope is appreciation. It seems to be; Will is crowded back against the wall almost immediately, with barely enough time to pull Hannibal’s shirt from his arms before he’s unbuttoned Will’s jeans, splayed hand sliding down and the curve of his thumb taut as he runs it down the length of Will’s cock. Will shudders into it, that first peak of being touched, his forehead pressing into the meat of Hannibal’s shoulder, and gasps when Hannibal’s other hand finds it’s way in-between his cheeks, fingers tracing light over warm skin.

“May I fuck you, Will?” The question breathed into his ear, and he can’t help the low laugh that escapes, “ _Yes_ , god, yes,” gasps littered in-between.

They do, right there on the floor of the foyer, and halfway through Will realizes his hands are clamped together, elbows grinding into the floor. He straightens slow, vertebrae by vertebrae, Hannibals hand tight on his chest and he likes that, likes the feeling of Hannibal’s torso flush on his back, he can feel every breath, every time his muscles clench with a roll. They’re still upright when Hannibal comes, one of his hands pressed in the dip between Will’s ribcage, the other dangerously close to his neck, Will’s own stretched back, fist gripped tight in Hannibal’s barely long-enough hair.

It’s good, a good end, but as the moment slows he begins to feel a little too full, clenching through the aftershocks and sitting back on his knees when Hannibal pulls away. “There a bathroom?” and Hannibal barely has time to answer before he’s stumbled that way.

 

The counter is cool marble on his hands, head bent low over the sink, and after he catches his breath he pulls his eyelids wide, tapping his contacts out and breathing deep into the blurred silence.

He stays still long enough to breathe through it, long enough to remember this isn’t the only thing that’s happened tonight, and then that tall figure appears, a silhouette in the doorway.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” He straightens, washes the 24 hour contacts down the sink. “Sorry, it was..kind of intense.”

“Intense?” He can tell Hannibal is looking him up and down. “You didn’t even come, my friend.”

 _How far do you want to take this night?_ But it's early still, he doesn't want to go home just yet.

“I mean, don’t take it personal,” and even through the blur he can see the man’s eyes narrow with a grin.

 

In the morning, Will wakes up alone. The bed is warm, tall windows letting in the rising sun, and a part of him wants to stay, to curl up tight in the sheets and fall back asleep. But, more than that, he wants to be home, to be back in his own familiar spaces. He stops in the bathroom to put in a fresh pair of contacts, and the bus ride home is just long enough for him to listen to the messages the police chief left on his dying phone. At home, he sets coffee to brew while he’s in the shower, afterwards filling a thermos to the brim, and the routine is so familiar that even as he emerges out onto the street it still feels a little like a dream.

He doesn't stay at the station long, just long enough to give a statement, and he leaves with a promise to return that afternoon for the paperwork that needs doing. Then it's back on the bus, and it’s not a long ride to the hospital but he already feels as if he’s been on one bus or another for days.

Aleshia's room is closed. A post-op exam, the nurses at the station tell him, and he does his best to ignore their hushed voices as he sits in the waiting area. A quarter hour. A half, he’s pulled the contacts out again, smoothing them flat one after the other in between his pointer finger and thumb and trying to recall their last good conversation. _She was just a kid, shunted around, just a kid that fell in with the wrong people._ He’d said so once to her, and the look on her face, you’d have thought he’d slapped her. _You so sure you’re not talking about yourself?_

The door opens and Will sits up, fumbles to pull an old pair of glasses from his pocket and pushes them up his nose at the sound of a scoff.

The doctor is there - surgeon, whatever, the one from the night before, quietly directing the nurse that had been in the room with him and very pointedly not looking at Will. Not that Will minds; its almost a favor how much this guy is willing to avoid direct conflict. He sits, hands folded, until the two walk away.

He’d meant to stand the moment they left, stand and walk in and see her, but ten minutes later he’s still staring at the floor, unable even to raise his head enough to look past the crack in the door. It’s not a new sensation, this feeling of being unable to move until his mind works through whatever it is that’s got him stuck. All the same, it’s not an enjoyable experience. He breathes deep, letting his eyes flicker shut.

“Will?”

Will looks up, quickly covering the jerk with a cough, because there’s Hannibal at the end of the hall, standing straight with a jacket hung crisp over the fold of his arm. He stares at Will for a moment, checks over his shoulder, then looks back again, and as he walks Will’s way, Will stands.

“Hello, good morning.”

“Afternoon,” Hannibal corrects him, though not unkindly.

“Are you meeting your - uh,”

“Friend?” Hannibal nods. “Not exactly. He offered a lunch to make-up for our dinner, but, it seems, work has once again caught up with him.”

“He called you out here and canceled?”

“Unfortunately I can’t say I’m too surprised. Although, I cannot claim to be entirely disappointed, either. I was harboring a hope that I might catch a glimpse of you.”

“A glimpse and a greeting. I’d say your _friend’s_ cancellations do seem to end up working in your favor.”

“Indeed.” Will watches with an eyebrow raised as he’s looked down and up again, Hannibal’s gaze lingering on his hips, his hands, every inch of skin left exposed.

“And?” Will says, when the man finally reaches his eyes.

“Hm?”

“Do I fit the bill?”

Hannibal’s eyes narrow at this. He steps forward and forward again, crowding close until the back of Will’s calves hit the seat of the chairs behind him.

“Are you asking,” his voice low and close, “if I enjoyed our time together?”

Will breathes deep the man’s cologne, and let’s his breath out slow.

“I know you enjoyed it. What I’m asking,” and Hannibal’s nostrils flare, “is if you’d like to... _enjoy_ me again.”

 

It isn’t hard to find an empty room. Hannibal had suggested they return to the apartment, but Will didn’t care to wait that long. A few floors up and they step sideways inside the door, with Hannibal pushing Will’s body back into it as it closes, a kiss and that already familiar press of his hand on the back of Will's neck. He pulls back slow, Will’s lip light between his teeth, fingers hooked in the belt loops of his jeans and his grin is magnificent, thin lips curled practically into a snarl. “I like the glasses, Will,” he says, and unbuttons Will’s jeans with a snap.

It’s different than it was the night before, when they were sex fatigued and drunk, sloppy touching, forgetful arousals after midnight. Here everything is crisp, the quiet sucking sounds, Hannibal’s hand gripping tight into the back of Will’s thigh. When he comes Hannibal sucks it out of him like a venom, Will almost has to push him off, it’s so raw. The pulse fades as Hannibal stands to full height again, and before he can stop himself Will reaches up, smoothing out Hannibal’s hair where he had ruffled it.

“I, uh, thanks.” His hand drops to his side, and he shakes his head slightly, glasses off-kilter. Hannibal says nothing, but after a moment of, it seems, careful consideration, bends in for a long, languorous kiss.

“I enjoyed it,” he breathes, and Will’s stomach settles.

“Do you want - “ but the rest of the question is lost at the sound of voices in the hall, right on the other side of the door. Hannibal’s hand, resting on Will’s shoulder, gives a squeeze.

“A raincheck.”

“Right.” The reality of the rest of the day is sinking back in already. Hannibal, who had been looking past him at the door, looks back, and frowns.

“Can I buy you a coffee, Will?”

“A coffee?”

“Not to be rude, but you look as if you might need one.”

He considers it, thinks better of it, and internally hushes himself.

“Sure.” And, as they emerge again into the hall, “It’s a little backwards, isn’t it?”

“What’s that?”

“Buying me coffee...after.”

Hannibal grins at this, and squeezes Will’s shoulder again.

“You need it,” he says, “and for that I believe I may be the one most at fault.”

 

It’s chilly out on the promenade, not cold but the wind that springs up from the sea is harsh, and unrelenting. Will’s grateful for the coffee, for the caffeine buzz and the thin paper cup it came in that warms his reddening fingers. He’s aware of how closely Hannibal is watching him, has always been aware of such things, though subtlety does seem to be one of the man’s many charms. They walk a little further and Will pauses to lean against the rail, blowing steam from the cup and watching the stream of mid-day commuters pass across the street, unaware of how to breach conversation, unsure he really wants to. Normally being scrutinized makes him uncomfortable, but somehow, with Hannibal, it doesn’t seem so bad.

“Did you know that young woman well?” Hannibal asks finally, turning slightly so he’s not facing Will head on, so that he, too, is watching the ambling crowd across the way.

“Yeah.” Suddenly he can hear himself speak as if through the ears of another, his voice cracked tired with the weight of the past few days. “She was one of my CI’s. She didn’t want to be like...like that. Hooked up all like that, 'dead on the state’s dollar'. She was talking about when she was older, I know that, but there’s no way she’s coming back from this.”

“I’m sorry,” Hannibal says, and perhaps he can see in Will’s eyes the image that has yet to leave him since the doctor opened her door, the sound of machines breathing in that dark space. “It’s a terrible thing.”

“You know what’s really terrible?” He can’t stop himself, and neither does he really want to. Incredible as it is, it's always been easier to say these things to strangers. “I didn’t shoot the guy. That’s...that’s why she’s in there. I had a shot and I didn’t take it.”

“Why not?”

He laughs, the sound as tired and broken as the rest of his speech.

“I don’t know, Hannibal. I don’t know.”

“But you must know, at least, that it is not your fault.”

“How? I mean really, _how_ , if I had just done it, if I’d just shot him before - “

“Listen to me, Will. In a situation like the one in which you found yourself last night, all we have are our instincts. If your instincts slowed your hand, there must have been a reason for it; whether you thought it might salvage the situation, or whether it was simply to protect yourself.”

Will had turned away during Hannibal’s speech, turned his back on the street to look out at the river.

“What if that’s why I did it?” His voice is stronger now, more even than it was before. “Why I didn’t shoot him? To protect myself?”

He looks over to Hannibal, whose eyes, he knows, have never left him, and swallows, because he still can’t read the man, _but what does it matter, you don’t know him, what does it matter what he thinks?_ He’s set to turn away again, build the wall back up, but then there are fingers on his cheek, and Hannibal kisses him there, right there out in the street. Will’s cheeks are still tight in his hands when he breaks away, just far enough to be able to speak.

“If that is the reason, then I, at least, selfishly, am glad for it.”

He sighs, and grips Will’s cheek with a pat, before letting his hand fall - an odd gesture, almost fatherly, but then again Will’s not exactly an expert on showcases of parental fondness.

“I’m afraid, Will, that I must depart for the evening. My days in your city are unfortunately drawing to an end.”

Something in Hannibal’s voice makes Will look up again and catch the man’s eye.

“Please stop by,” Hannibal says. “Not tonight, but any other. You know where to find me?”

He smiles at the nod Will gives and presses another quick kiss on his forehead. Walking away, he throws his empty coffee cup at a garbage can, without looking, but it goes in; it doesn’t even touch the rim.

 

That night, Will takes a sleeping pill at 8pm. He’d puttered around the station as long into the evening as he could stomach it, had thought about dining out somewhere but the idea of doing it alone was so off-putting that he'd ended up just going home instead. It isn’t that he dislikes being alone, but the way other people look at him, that pitied interest, it makes his chest tight. So he goes home and eats a boxed pasta dinner and sits numb on the couch with his brain wired. The sleeping pill helps.

In the morning he wakes in a haze, sunlight bright through the window and he isn't in his bed but on the couch, the collie he’d picked up last week asleep by his feet. He’d gone to sleep in his bed - he knows that, and it takes him a long minute to remember that he'd woke up early in the morning and stumbled to the medicine cabinet for another pill, the couch infinitely more inviting than a sweaty set of sheets. He rubs his face awake. The voicemail machine is blinking at him, the collie and Annie, his terrier, stirring. He stands up just enough to press the button, and then collapses back down, disgruntling the dogs as the message plays out.

_Hey detective, its Shelley. Looks like the guys over at Crossroads Impound picked up your car. Officer Leckard said he could drive you over, he’ll be off duty around 9a.m. Just call the station if you don't have his number and they’ll let him know. And, uh - hate to say it, but don’t get your hopes up. Didn’t sound good._

It may have been longer, might be that he’s still woozy from the double dose, but it seems to Will that the first honk of the cop car outside sounds as soon as the message is done. He peeks out the curtains; it's Leckard all right, and disappears into the back for a pair of jeans and boots, all to a sporadic barrage of honks.

“How's the headaches, Detective?" Leckard asks, grinning at the dark sunglasses Will has over his eyes. They all know, see him carrying around that bottle of Advil, all have that story about the one day they were with him at a scene and his eyes went a little out of focus, mind all tangled up in the bruised body piles of guts, thick shards of bone and the marrow of a mystery.

"They're all right," Will mutters, uninterested in providing any further explanation. "You know where we’re going?"

"Yeah, I’ve got some buddies out there. Bet you were wondering why I offered to drive you, huh? They still owe me fifty from the last time the Saints lost. Can’t wait to see their faces when I drive up to collect in my car."

Will doesn’t say anything. He's already leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes.

 

At the yard, Leckard takes off to find his guilty party while the owner leads Will over to his car, and Shelley was right. It's a shell, practically nothing left but the metal frame.

"What happened?"

"Looks like they doused it in gasoline.” The owner doesn’t sound in the least bit shocked. “I know a guy who sells used, I think his kid is on the force. I bet he’d give you a good deal for a new one.” Will nods at this, murmured thanks. “I'll get you the address."

 

He's in the used car lot when his phone rings, watching with disinterest as Leckard tries to talk the salesman down, but at the first sound of the voice on the other end of the line, Will's hands go cold.

"Replacing it already? Why bother, detective? I don’t think they’ve invented fireproof paint."

"Why’d you burn up my car, John?"

"Why’d you let my sister get shot, detective? In fact, why were you there at all? Mark working with you? He a snitch?”

Leckard is mimicking the guy now, mirroring each pat on the chest and Will can't imagine himself in any of these cars, can't imagine caring to keep them up at all. Maybe he will, just for something to do, but _fuck_. Working with Mark, that sleazeball boyfriend? That night hadn’t been the first time he’d threatened Aleshia, but not once had Will dreamed he’d actually go through on his word. Working with Mark? No, he would never. But who decides what the truth is?

"If Mark was my CI, you think I’d tell you?"

"Your CI." His laughter is harsh through the phone. "Fucking _cops_."

After that, there's just static, and Will knows with a numbness that Mark is finished, whether it's the cops or John that reach him first.

 

It isn’t hard to find the apartment again, especially since he did pick up a car from the lot. And it isn’t hard, either, to work up the courage to actually approach the door. In his mind’s eye there’s conversation, sure, for a minute, and maybe he’ll have to trade in some information about himself, but after that they’ll have the whole evening to make up for it. It’ll come together, all he has to do is knock, but a sound from inside stays his hand, the nimble _clink_ of classical piano. He frowns, and after a second knocks anyway, then once again, louder.

 _He’s not home_ , but then a woman pipes up, “Come in!”, and for a second he thinks he’s at the wrong door, but no, it’s right, it’s something else thats off. He turns back down the stairs, whatever is happening inside surely not something for which he’s in the mood, but just then the door opens from behind him.

“Hello!”

There stands a woman, her voice the same as the one who spoke before, and she’s dressed extravagantly, holding a glass of wine with the tips of her fingers.

“Are you - “ she’s looking him up and down, “are you delivering something?”

“No. I - is Hannibal here?”

“Well, yes,” her laugh is uncomfortably high-pitched, ”but - my god, you can’t be here for the dinner?”

“Sorry?”

“Not dressed like that.”

“The dinner?”

“Hold on.”

The sound of her heels echoes down the hall, melding with the classical music and a hint of soft talk, laughter. After a few moments she reemerges, “Come in,” for the second time, and she leads him past the foyer and into the parlor, where there sit seven others, all dressed like they’re about to attend an opera.

“He’s in the kitchen,” the woman says to Will, not unkindly. “I’ll just fetch him.”

And with that, she leaves him in clear line of sight.

“Hello,” one of the men says finally, cheerfully, if a bit nonplussed. “Have we met?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But you know Hannibal?” asks one of the others.

“Yes.” He’s got his hands shoved in his pockets, tapping each finger to his thumb in a steady rhythm and when he realizes this, he stops immediately. There’s a long silence.

“Well, what do you do?” one of the other men asks.

“I’m a detective.”

“A detective?” The woman who spoke quickly covers her mouth, her sharp burst of laughter with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, that’s just - “

“Hannibal always did like to keep a good collection of friends,” one of the others says in a not-so quiet undertone, and Will can’t decide whether he’s insinuating corruption or, the irrational part of him thinks, their brief affair. The man sitting next to the one who spoke laughs, giving him a backhanded slap on the arm.

“Were you at a sting?” one of woman asks, leaning in with bright eyes.

“Sorry?”

“You know, like, undercover?”

“I - uh, no.”

“Oh. Sorry, I just thought…”

“It’s all right Lana,” one of the other women asks, “I thought so too. Are detectives not meant to wear suits anymore?”

“I’m off duty.”

Thank god the door through which the first woman disappeared swings open, and there’s Hannibal, slacks and a button-up with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, his hair slicked back and eyes bright.

“Will,” he says, and it’s as if there’s no one else in the room. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Oh, so you _do_ know him,” one of the men says, and Will knows his expression is tight-lipped.

“Indeed, Detective Graham is a good friend.”

“Ah,” says the woman at his shoulder, then, to Hannibal, “is he going to stay for dinner?”

Hannibal turns to face him again. “Will?”

“I - no. No, I have some work I need to catch up on. I really only meant to stop by.”

He’s already backing up, as casually as he can which isn’t actually very casual at all, and Hannibal is watching him, eyeing the others in the room with his peripherals.

“I’ll walk you out,” he says, two great strides and he’s at Will’s side, a gentle hand on his elbow turning him toward the door. The conversation of the guests is still audible, though hushed as they step into the hall, snippets - _didn’t even introduce himself_ \- following them like shadows.

 

“You’re sure you can’t stay?”

They’re lingering by the door, and Will’s grinding his teeth that he didn’t call first, and to keep himself asking Hannibal to send all those guests away.

“I should go.”

Hannibal frowns, and looks back down the hall.

“Did they offend you, Will? If so, I apologize - “

“Don’t.”

Hannibal considers him a moment and then steps in, a light finger and thumb on Will’s jaw, prompting him but Will turns, some small resistance, and Hannibal kisses his way along Will’s cheek instead. The one that follows on his mouth is deep, but still, somehow, distracted.

“Stay,” Hannibal breathes into his mouth, and that sounds real, almost desperate. “Stay, I want you too.”

“You’re _friends_ didn’t seem too keen.”

Hannibal sighs, almost angrily.

“They’re not bad company. They’re interesting people, I don’t dine with idiots.”

“They’re rude, Hannibal.” He shakes his head. “I don’t dine with the rude.”

  


~

  


_The visit from Crawford is jarring, not in the sense that it frightens him, no, he’s shaken instead from the adrenaline rush that comes with the unexpected collision of such distinctly separate worlds. He knows Crawford, or knows of him, and yes, he knows more or less of the profiler in Washington made up of legend, but never before had he connected the dots. Will Graham. A psychological profile of Will, that darling boy whom his friends had practically laughed from the room. He’d killed them for that, killed them all, that look of realized betrayal in their eyes so sweet at the final blow, and it was then he’d first understood the delectable aftertaste of a righteous meal._

_They’d been so rude to you, love, the pigs._

_He agrees, of course he agrees, walking the halls perhaps once tred by Lass, studying the pictures of those dead brunette clones, all the while doing his best to tune out Crawford, the way he talks like Will belongs to him. Hannibal’s breath catches when he first walks in, glasses, stubble, but otherwise almost exactly the same._

_Yes, he’ll work the profile, work it to fit exactly how he wants, and perhaps it won’t be long before Will partakes. He’d so longed for it that last night, imagined for weeks afterwards: Will at the dinner table, set with bodies sprawled._

_No, it will not be long._

_Will shifts, sits, eyes all around, and Hannibal can barely help his grin._

* * *

_Season two in ten days :)_

_Not as many sexy scenes as I think we'd all like but I didn't really want to force it. I always liked the idea that they knew each other before, and then I saw[this picture](http://hermajestieship.tumblr.com/post/75327353835) and it set off sparks. _

_Not sure if I'm done with this au yet maybe i'll write some little in-between the show snippets or something who knows. Thanks for reading!!_


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